


I shall have lived a little while

by bookingit



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Here we go, Holding Hands, M/M, and they were ROOMMATES, i have 'let Jim and Morse into my heart', making out in shared spaces, oooooh, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookingit/pseuds/bookingit
Summary: In which the unspoken something between Morse and Jim finally comes to fruition.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Jim Strange
Comments: 7
Kudos: 43





	I shall have lived a little while

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [AstridContraMundum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstridContraMundum/gifts), [LadyAJ_13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/gifts), [Drusilla_951](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drusilla_951/gifts).



> Alright, gang.  
> So here we are.  
> THIS was started in response to being tagged by AstridConstraMundum, LadyAJ_13, and teacup-spock on tumblr for the First Line Meme.  
> And as a result of reading some of jasmiinitee's Jim/Morse fic, voila.  
> You have this. 
> 
> Let me know what you think by leaving comments and kudos below.  
> Enjoy!

There’s a situation that crops up here and there in Jim’s life where he’s asked, “what’s the first thing you always notice about your flatmate”.

Each and every time, he laughs, not because the question is funny, but because he needs to stall for time.

Ask Jim what he thinks of his flatmate, the first thing he notices, and he’d probably come out with something about crossword puzzles and the extra beer in the fridge. Maybe the way Morse never sleeps.

No matter _what_ it is he comes up with, provided he has time to think, everything is fine.

But here he is, nine o’clock on a Thursday evening, and he’s been asked that question. By all measures, everything _should_ be alright…

Everything is _not_ alright.

Because the asker is Morse—look at Morse, and the first thing you notice is… well, it’s not that _simple_.

The first thing Jim had noticed when he’d stood at the top of a flight of stairs and sheepishly introduced himself to his now-flatmate was the colour of the other man’s eyes; when he’d found Morse injured on the steps of the Bodleian, it was the lithe curve of his torso (and the bleeding); whenever he comes across Morse sitting alone in the pub, Jim’s eyes find themselves drawn to the graceful curl of the other man’s fingers around a pint glass.

And here Jim is, sitting on the sofa with none other than the man himself, and he’s just been asked _that_ question.

They’re both three sheets to the wind on a mixture of pub beer and the chilled stuff they keep at home.

( _And just_ when, Jim wonders quietly, taking another sip from the bottle in his hand, _did it become home?)_

The only thought running through his head is, ‘ _God help me, I want to tell the truth’._

Which would be a _terrible_ idea even if Jim _hadn’t_ finally tuned in to the way Morse seems to eye him up every time he leans against his desk.

(Jim, since he noticed these surreptitious once-overs, has started leaning against desks more frequently).

“Strange.” Morse’s tone is quiet, and yet…

The intensity beneath it all fizzles in Jim’s blood like a firecracker.

He shakes his head a bit to clear it of the desperate dilemma.

“Yeah, matey?”

Morse’s eyes, hard and oh so blue in front of him, soften a bit as he smiles.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to…”

Jim takes a swallow of his beer, squares his shoulders before sliding his gaze sideways to Morse. If he’s going down with the truth, might as well hear what Morse has to say.

“Nah, matey… you go first.”

The flat is quiet for a moment, and Jim can distantly hear the neighbours arguing four doors down about the rent.

Morse looks away toward the kitchen before rising from the sofa to fetch two more beers.

When he finally settles in again, this time a bit _closer_ to Jim’s side, he folds his legs under him and opens the bottle, taps it against Jim’s.

Morse turns to regard him in the low light from the kitchen.

“Alright.” He leans forward to move the old bottles out of the way and somehow manages to inch even closer to where Jim waits, breathlessly confused, for his flatmate’s answer. 

Morse moves sideways on the couch, and his face is nearer than it’s ever been to Jim’s own; Jim _knows_ because he’s pictured this a million times over, even more since they’ve moved in together. Morse’s breath puffs ever so faintly against his cheek.

Their eyes meet briefly… and then Morse’s eyes flicker down to Jim’s _lips_ and Jim’s do the same, and Jim can’t help but think that…

Well, that’s all wrong. His brain has short-circuited; Jim can’t really think at all right now.

The two of them are left a hair’s distance apart, breathing unsteadily. On the brink of something new; something terrifying not in and of itself, but because what if they’ve each misread the whole thing?

Another glance down; Morse wets his lips quickly and draws breath to speak.

“First thing I noticed was—”

A pounding on the door echoes through the small space between them; they jump guiltily, as though the person on the other side of the door might know what could have just transpired. 

Morse deflates a bit on his side of the sofa, as though he had been gathering his courage for something.

Jim, Meanwhile, tries for a nonchalant appearance, but he can’t keep the disappointment from spreading across his features.

Huffing out a small laugh, his flatmate shakes his head. Morse leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, turns his head to look back at Jim.

“I suppose I’ll get that.”

Before Jim can reply, Morse sets the beer down and springs up from the sofa, making his way toward the door.

A minute passes, and he can hear drunken laughter and the sound of Morse’s voice, quiet but steady against the backdrop of his various thoughts.

The couple down the hall seem to have finished fighting, thinks Jim idly. Wonder if they—

No, he tells himself. No, you think about what just went on between you two.

What did just go on?

Nothing, answers a part of his mind, the ugly, doubting part that keeps Jim silent, reserved, that keeps him from looking Morse directly in the eye over drinks at the pub, that makes him turn away to hide his gaze every time the other sergeant smirks at something known only to himself.

Nothing just went on, it says. Nothing _can_ go on; you’re _blokes_ ; blokes can’t do this sort of thing—

And then Jim pauses in his thoughts. Smashes that doubting voice into bits, has an idea of sweeping them out a door and into the lane in his head. 

He sets himself to mulling it over for a few, opens up his mind. After all, no use wasting time till Morse gets back.

What will Morse do, what will he say?

Are they doomed to stay just a few feet apart, pretending they _don’t_ furtively eye each other up, _haven’t_ just nearly kissed on the sofa?

Jim can’t say. But he doesn’t want to pretend anything. 

Still, he thinks, _it_ , whatever _it_ is, nearly happened once…

The door slams and Morse’s footsteps thud lightly on the carpet as he walks back down the hall and into the living room.

Jim, meanwhile, has moved over enough to be sitting now at the very edge of “his” side of the sofa, nearly on the seam between the couch cushions that marks out where his area ends and Morse’s begins.

In this situation, Jim would expect some adjusting of positions on Morse’s part, maybe just to leave plenty of space between them. He doesn’t expect the other man to sit so that this time, they're nearly pressed together.

Morse reaches forward to the coffee table, separates the empty bottles from the two relatively full ones, then leans back.

Jim can’t quite conceal his relief that the other man didn’t just… carry on like normal, clear all the bottles from the table and head off to bed.

He startles a bit as Morse clears his throat quietly, rushes to speak.

“So, what was… who was it?”

Instead of answering, Morse fidgets a bit, leans forward again to reach for his beer. The noise the fabric of his shirt makes as it slides against Jim’s side is nearly imperceptible. Light shines off of his eyes, settles behind his head gently.

(Jim almost has to remind himself that it’s a mere coincidence that Morse's settled right in front of a lightbeam from the kitchen, and that it _doesn't_ look as though his flatmate’s got a bloody halo.)

“Drunk college kid.” Morse’s tone is hushed, indecipherable.

But for some reason, he takes a deep breath, and ends up saying only, “Jim…”

“Morse.” Strange's voice comes out a good deal lower than he intended, and shiver moves the muscles of Morse’s back where his shirt stretches tight across them.

Jim looks down to his hands where they rest on his knees, breathes in deep and lets it out through his mouth.

Again, a rustle of cloth as Morse sits slowly up. 

The room is silent.

And another hand, paler, smaller, rests hesitantly against Jim’s own.

He breaths in quickly, intending to say _something_ , which Morse must take as a protest, because he withdraws his hand, makes to rise from the couch as a slew of explanations tumbles frantically out.

“Strange—sorry, shouldn’t have—”

His apology halts midway as Jim reaches out quickly, just enough to catch one of those pale, freckled wrists in a gentle grip.

Just enough, thinks Jim’s flatmate, frantic with embarrassment, to keep you from leaving. _Why_?

In the middle of berating himself silently for making the worst mistake a flatmate can, he pauses. Because…has he? Has he made a mistake?

So he stands still; hardly daring to move as Jim’s voice, low and just a bit _raspy_ , sounds from behind him.

“Sit down, Morse.”

And a light tug on his captured wrist has him back on the sofa with Jim Strange’s eyes once more softly scanning his own.

The grasp on his wrist loosens, twists so that Strange’s thumb brushes gently over his pulse point.

He tilts his head gently, closes his eyes. Tries to memorize the sensation of Jim’s breath warming the side of his neck.

(Jim, meanwhile, keeps his eyes open, taking in the way Morse’s lips are parted just like _so_ , how his breath catches ever so slightly when Jim brushes over his pulse point)

Morse feels the thumb gliding back and forth over the inside of his wrist move away, and a set of fingers intertwines with his own.

Cloth rustles a bit as Jim switches hands, so that the hand technically _farthest_ from Morse now settles back where the closer one was, and their fingers join once more.

Jim, finally understanding that it’s his turn to make a move now, lets his arm sneak around the back of the sofa to pull Morse even closer, to get rid of the final space that separates them. 

And _lord_ , the way Morse gasps has him leaning down to press his lips to the side of the other man’s neck, dragging them up, and whispering lowly, “ _God,_ Morse,” he brushes his lips, featherlight behind Morse’s ear, “D’you know…” Here, his words trail off as he simply breathes in the moment, the nearness, the warmth.

“…D’you know how long I’ve wanted this?” He whispers, and can see Morse shiver as the words, nearly hissed, settle against the shell of his ear.

As Strange traces out in kisses a path along his unbuttoned shirt collar, Morse, for once, lets himself be overcome by thoughts, not of codes and cases, but of sensation, of _want_. Is his neck _really that sensitive_ , he wonders, not caring to find the answer.

As _teeth_ (and he doesn’t care to name the noise _this_ elicits) nip gently at the side of his neck, he’s fairly, no, _absolutely_ sure that were the two of them standing, his knees wouldn’t hold.

And a small voice at the back of his mind whispers that his knees wouldn’t hold him, _but Strange would_.

Morse turns his head towards Jim, tilts the other man’s head up with two fingers beneath his chin.

(He catalogues, of course, the flush in Jim’s cheeks, the glimmer of a smile he gives before straightening up to tower once more above him. The warmth of their breath mingling.)

Maybe it’s Jim who starts it, leaning down shyly to press their lips together.

Or maybe Morse reaches up, pulls him gently down until their breath mingles, and then is shared.

Either way, all shyness is soon cast aside, and the first thing Jim notices is that he enjoys the way Morse’s tongue teases the seam of his lips, and parts them, tilts his head, cups Morse’s jaw in his palm.

And between the tugging of teeth on a bottom lip, fingers tangled in someone’s hair, they find their positions changed in the quest for more _._

 _More_ is hands roaming over clothes, then under, the warmth of palms on skin.

 _More_ is the weight of one gaze, one body, on another, the unexpected shyness of a smile as fingers twine together once again.

And _more_ is more than that.

If anyone knocks at the door just now, walks in the flat, they’d find two young sergeants on the sofa, rushing to smooth their clothes down, to untangle their fingers.

But no one knocks. And even if they did, there would be no answer.


End file.
